Alinor Read online

  Again Ian was surprised. His general knowledge and acceptance of women as beautiful, helpless idiots, useful only for the bearing of sons, was in constant conflict with Alinor’s capability. Simon had always said Alinor could manage the property, except for the actual practice of war when that was necessary. However, Ian had never had occasion to discuss such matters with her. When Simon was well, their talk had always been of politics, not the hunting of reavers or the control of vassals. For the past year and a half, moreover, he had seen Alinor at an enormous disadvantage, absorbed as she was by Simon’s illness. There were other capable women—Nicola de la Hay, for example—but their abilities seemed to have rubbed off on their persons. They were mannish of manner as well as of mind. Alinor alone, it seemed to Ian, was totally feminine—even when she was overbearing.

  It did not occur to Ian that Alinor was honest with him, whereas those among the women with whom he had played at love, who had brains and ability, had had reason to conceal those attributes from him. Although Ian was unconscious of it, he encouraged their silly simpering by his acceptance and seeming approval of it. In fact, he was known not to keep company with women who talked of serious matters. This was not because Ian particularly liked gabbling nonsense but because he did not trust the women he played with. Surely a woman who betrayed her husband with her body would think little of betraying a lover with her mouth. In the past, Ian’s relations with women had been totally formal or purely physical—the quicker into bed the better. The only reason he did not confine himself to professional whores was that there were so few of them that were not completely filthy and degraded both in mind and body.

  Now, although he was surprised by Alinor’s quick understanding and analysis, Ian was not offended by it. He was relieved that he would not need to make a long explanation for which he had little time. “I will write to Winchester, of course,” he agreed, “but I am not sure where he is. I do not greatly fear his anger in any case. He is a reasonable man, and I can easily compound with him for any damage or insult.”

  “The king’s land is something else again,” Alinor commented. “Perhaps you had better look at what Salisbury says before you consider the danger of enraging John further.” She pushed toward him the sheet of parchment that was lying near her on the table.

  “To Ian, Lord de Vipont, greetings,” Ian read. “I write in haste before I take ship for England. I have lately left my brother, King John, and at that time someone fulsomely praising him did mention Lord Pembroke, he who was William Marshal, saying neither he nor his late friend Simon Lemagne could have better fought the war. Sir Simon’s death being thus called to my lord brother’s mind in an idle moment, my lord began to speak of comforting the widow’s lonely and unprotected state. He has not yet decided who would be most suitable, but, among others, Fulk de Cantelu and Henry of Cornhill were mentioned. As I know you had an eye to the lady and her lands yourself, and since I am much in your debt, I write to advise you that if your mind is still fixed upon her, you should move apace to gain her consent and even to wed and bed her before my lord fix upon a partner for her and make your suit impossible. If you succeed, remember that I wish to share your joy by being a guest at your nuptials. You will find me fixed for the present at my main seat in Salisbury. My lord brother will grace Winchester with his presence this Christ’s Mass, so he will easily be near enough for you to make your peace with him at that time if your suit to Lady Alinor speeds well. I do suppose my lord will come into London some two weeks before his coming to Winchester, but it may be that he will sail to a port nearer Winchester. I hope this finds you as it leaves me, well. Written on the fourth day of October by William, Earl of Salisbury.”

  Ian raised his eyes from the letter and stared straight ahead. Fool that he was to allow Alinor to write a fair copy. He should have known what Salisbury would say. Alinor was first puzzled and then felt an uneasy flicker of contempt at the dismay that showed on his countenance. It seemed that she had misjudged Ian after all. He was not prepared to withstand the king’s wrath.

  “There is no need to regard your offer to me as binding,” she said icily. “We have sworn no oaths—”

  “For sweet Mary’s sake, Alinor, I never said it! I swear,” he interrupted passionately, “I swear on my soul—on Simon’s soul—I never said a word about your lands. That was Salisbury’s thought, not mine! I am no pauper. I have more than enough—”

  Alinor began to laugh. It was by the grace of God that she, who of all women might have expected to be married for her wealth, should be the wife of two men who were morbidly anxious to avoid any stain of greed. She put her hand on his arm.

  “Ian, I never thought of that. I thought, since King John has gone so far, that it might be better to think again of my plan. Let him choose—”

  “No!”

  They had been speaking quietly. Even Ian’s anguished protest had been expressed in an undertone. His explosive bellow of negation, however, drew all eyes and silenced the eaters in the hall. Alinor patted his hand. The confident, intimate gesture reassured the startled servants. Whatever had disturbed the lord was nothing to do with the lady.

  “You do not know the men Salisbury named,” Ian continued in a lower voice. “I would not even dignify them with the name of beast. It would be an offense to the filthiest animal to be compared with Cantelu and Cornhill.”

  “Yes, of course. I guessed that. The whole letter is a warning, although he has written so cleverly that if it were taken and read, none could accuse him of more than a friendly hint to someone he owes a favor. His marking of Winchester is to say that John might send for me, being not so far off from Roselynde, and would be near enough to take me by force if I refused. Or even—note how he writes of a port nearer Winchester than London—that he might land here and come in person.”

  “You are very quick to see.”

  “Quick enough when I am the quarry of the hunt. Now, what is to be done if the king write his commands to me?”

  “Ignore them. You are betrothed already.”

  Alinor opened her mouth, and then shut it. She had a far better idea than openly flouting the king’s command, but it would be foolish to tell Ian. Doubtless he would regard the stratagem as dishonest or as a reflection on his courage. Briefly, in spite of years of experience, Alinor was washed with a feeling of irritation. She would never understand why men always wished to butt stone walls down with their heads instead of climbing over or going along until they found an opening. At the same time, she was proud that her man would not sneak or lie but would stand up bravely for his own act when he thought it right.

  “Very well,” she concurred mendaciously. “Probably he will not bother. To return to the question of the reavers—”

  “Yes. I fear we have more here than a few outlawed men. The attacks are well organized and, except for one or two instances, are not directed against the weakest and easiest target but against the richest. The outlying serfs’ huts are usually left in peace. It is the main farm buildings—your property—that are the goal. Whole herds have been driven off, and large quantities of grain have been taken. This argues a large band, and a large band controlled by someone who has some knowledge of military practice.”

  Alinor’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Then they must be encamped in the Forest of Bere. The Church lands are too well settled for any large group to be concealed thereon. How will you do, Ian? To go in after them without leave would be a grave offense against the king—yet to beg his leave just at this time—”

  “Why should he know aught of it?” Ian’s voice was cold. “I will not touch even one of his precious deer. And does it not seem odd to you that the foresters—who would be quick enough to report my going into the forest—have not this long while noticed whoever is there?”

  “John knows!” Alinor gave an outraged gasp.

  “No, no,” Ian soothed. “It is more likely that the foresters are bought. John may be no prize,” he continued bleakly, “but if you take a man’s
penny, you must give him honest service. There will be a few less foresters if I find it needful to go into the Forest of Bere. Alinor, I will give a few days or a week to trying to trap them on your land. It will put a good face on matters if the king should hear of my invasion of his forest. I can say that, in the heat of pursuit, I did not mark where I was. But to have any hope in this matter, I must strip Roselynde of men-at-arms. Thus, you too will incur the king’s displeasure should he hear of it.”

  “How can you be so silly?” Alinor laughed. “Can his displeasure with me be any greater?”

  “No, but this is a matter he can bring up openly against you. Moreover, it will mean that for some time there will be none to defend Roselynde beyond women, old men, and babes.”

  Alinor considered, then shrugged. “You will not be so far that you cannot come to our assistance, and even women and babes can make shift to hold these walls until you come to us. As far as I know, I have no present enemy.”

  Ian accepted that, but he insisted on having warning beacons set up, as well as messengers, so that word of trouble at Roselynde Keep would reach him more quickly and surely. It was less the thought of enemies that Ian feared than that someone would try to snatch his prize from him before he could enjoy it. He did not say that to Alinor; only, as he rose to speak to the group of men Beorn had chosen, he urged her to set Father Francis to work on the marriage contract.

  “I will sign it as soon as I return or, if I am away longer than I think to be, you can send it to me by messenger, and I will sign.”

  “But what shall I say? And I need a list of your holdings. Why such haste?”

  He looked at her for a long moment before replying, and a red spark flickered in his dark eyes. Alinor found her breath quickening under his stare. For that brief time, a hot avidity showed in his face that roused an instant response in her. Ian muttered something under his breath that Alinor did not ask to have repeated. Then he cleared his throat.

  “Do not act the fool. Once that contract is signed, the king will need to fight the Church to get you out of my hands. And he has trouble enough with Church matters just now not to desire to add any straws to the ass’s load. I will send you a list of my lands. It will give me something to do while I wait for the reavers. As to what to say—” Suddenly he looked away, and the animation died out of his face. “The contract you signed with Simon will do for me, except that you must add that if I do not get heirs of my body on you, my lands are to go to Adam. If—if aught befall Adam, which God forbid—then to Joanna—or to Adam’s heirs or Joanna’s in the event I and their children survive them.”

  Alinor wished she could say something to comfort him. What was there to say to a man who was forcing himself to marry his friend’s wife to protect her? Ian kissed her hand as he was leaving the table and said he would return for a word just before he left the keep. Perhaps he could close his eyes, Alinor thought bitterly, and see a different face. All bodies were like enough in the act of love. But Ian’s eyes had not been closed. It was her face he had devoured with his looks—until he remembered she had been Simon’s wife. Alinor rolled her wine goblet between her hands, then sipped from it, although she knew wine would not warm the chill she felt. Was even the simple pleasure of bedding to be denied her?

  How could she explain to Ian that the body was something Simon understood, that Simon would never blame them or think less of them for enjoying each other? That Ian desired her physically was plain enough. That he thought the desire wrong was equally plain. What does that mean for me? Alinor wondered. Will he be disgusted by me, hate me, if I expose my need and my satisfaction with its fulfillment? Tears burned her eyes, but she did not let them fall. I will always be “Simon’s wife”, she thought. In his mind there is another woman that he wishes were “Ian’s wife”. Thus, I must remain Simon’s wife to whom he must do his duty.

  The heavy thought lay on her mind and was not lightened by the formal manner with which Ian took his leave. Of necessity her farewell was equally formal. Ian said he would keep her informed and turned away cursing himself for his unguarded display of passion. The warmth and friendship had gone out of her. It is not I, myself, she finds repugnant, Ian told himself, wishing he felt as sure as the words sounded. It is an offense to her that I could desire her so soon after Simon’s death.

  “Fool of a woman,” he muttered under his breath, “does she think that Simon’s shade casts some kind of pall on her beauty? How can I sit by her and look at her and speak to her—and yet not desire her? I am not made of stone!”

  “Lord?” Owain asked. “Did you speak?”

  “Only to myself,” Ian said wryly. “It is a sign of aging.”

  Owain laughed dutifully at what he assumed was a joke as they emerged into the bailey, but the sound cut off at the sight of the fully caparisoned horse a hulking groom was holding with some difficulty.

  “What is this?” Ian asked sharply in English.

  “The mistress begs that you will use the old lord’s destriers,” the groom panted. “There is no one else who can manage them. If you will not ride them, the lady says, they must be destroyed.”

  “Very well,” Ian snarled.

  It was ridiculous that this should hurt him. The horses were superb and very valuable, with a strength and endurance few, if any, could match. It was also true that the breed of gray stallions seemed possessed of devils. They bit and lashed out at anyone unless controlled by a powerful hand. It made them invaluable as war horses. In fact, they often seemed more eager to fight than the men who rode them, and needed to be restrained from charging at anything that moved. The men-at-arms would not ride them, nor even go near them by choice.

  Simon had had no trouble with them. Possibly his weight communicated some force of authority. Ian could manage them also. He had had a gift of one when he was still Simon’s squire and had learned—after some painful experiences—how to deal with them, and he had ridden them when he had helped out during Simon’s illness. Now he warned Owain and Geoffrey to stand well away, seized the reins from the groom, and vaulted into the saddle. The horse leapt straight up into the air, came down on its forelegs, and lashed out with its hind. Ian drew in the reins against the beast’s resistance until the neck was arched into its breast. It reared, but with somewhat less enthusiasm. He kept the reins drawn tight but steady. The horse came down, danced a bit, lashed out once more with its hind legs, and settled.

  “So,” Ian soothed, patting its neck. “So. So. Now we are friends.”

  From a window above Alinor watched. He was so different from Simon in every way but his upright soul. There could be no confusion between them in her heart.

  “Oh!” Adam’s voice beside her drew her eyes. “Oh! Ian can ride Papa’s horses,” the boy marveled as he watched Ian start off toward the small drawbridge that led to the outer bailey and thence beyond to the walls. “No one else can, not even Beorn. But someday I will,” he said, looking up. “I will.”

  “Yes, you will, and doubtless Ian will teach you—God willing,” Alinor sighed. Then caution rose into her eyes. Her voice sharpened. “And even more doubtless, Ian will beat you witless if he finds you have tried to ride one of your father’s horses before you are ready. Those are valuable beasts. If one should be hurt by your inexpert handling, Ian would be so angry and so disappointed that I do not know how he would get over it.”

  Relief flooded Alinor as she saw the sparkle die out of Adam’s eyes. That little devil had been considering trying to sneak a ride on one of those monsters. Probably she had nipped the idea in the bud, but she would have a word with the head groom. Still, the thoughtful expression on Adam’s face gave his mother some comfort.

  It would be dreadful, indeed, the boy was thinking, if one of Papa’s war horses should be injured. A whole estate might be put up as a bond to buy a horse like that. It did not occur to Adam that his frail body would be far more likely to break than the leg of a horse or that his mama had never expressed concern for the mishandling of
the beasts when she told Beorn to see if he could find someone, anyone, who would ride them.

  “When will I be ready?” Adam asked.

  “I am not perfectly sure. Your father told me once that it was a matter of weight as well as of mastery. When the weight on them is too light, the horses are afraid. They do not understand what is astride them. They do not believe it is a man, and are too proud to carry women. Papa weighed about fifteen stone, and the horses were always quiet under him. Ian weighs about thirteen stone, I should guess. If your horsemanship continues as well as you promise now, Adam, I imagine Ian will mount you on the gray destriers when you weigh—oh, eight or ten stone.”

  That seemed safe. Adam weighed a little more than four stone already, and he was aware of how quickly he was gaining height and weight. Therefore, it would seem to him that putting on another four or five stone of weight would not take long. Alinor knew, of course, that Adam would not continue growing at the rate he was now, and, more important, that long before he gained another four stone he would be in some other household, well away from the temptation of her grandfather’s strain of horseflesh.

  Fortunately, the interlude had broken Alinor’s mood. Chilling fears of her inability to live up to Ian’s standards were overlain by the pleasant concept of day-to-day life with him. Instead of turning back to her embroidery, over which she could brood and indulge in her fears and self-pity, she sent Adam off to make up the lessons he had missed. To his groans of protest that it was a stupid waste of time for a man to learn to read and write, she replied that Ian read and wrote fluently.

  “You know he would not bother to reply to a letter written by a scribe,” Alinor suggested, “but if you write with your own hand and ask him when you will be ready to ride, I am sure he would write a letter back to you. I will lend you a messenger to carry your letter.”

  To send a letter by a messenger all his own! “What seal will I use?” Adam asked with a spark of enthusiasm.

  “Your father’s, of course,” Alinor replied gravely. “It is yours now by right. You will find it near to mine in the small brown chest on the writing table in the chamber where I do my accounts. When you have finished your letter, I will give you the key to the chest, and Father Francis will show you how to use the seal.”